How Bruce's Life Got a Lot Harder (feat ABBA)
by helpivefallenandicantgetup
Summary: Selina goes for a midnight snack and ends up discovering that she has some things in common with Bruce's kid. Let's face it: Selina has always had Cool Stepmom Energy.


Selina stretches, leaning into the pop of her shoulders before she heads downstairs. The banister is broad, polished light wood, perfect for sliding, and she eyes it for a moment before resisting temptation. She has a reputation to uphold, after all. Instead she drags one long fingernail listlessly along the side as she descends, putting a barely noticeable scratch in the polish.  
She's not that hungry, but even though she's done quite well for herself in adulthood she's never quite been able to shake old, feral instincts, one of which compels her to never pass up free food.  
The kitchen light is off—in fact, the whole manor is pitch black, and she sort of wishes she had her goggles right about now but she's too proud to go back and get them—but she can hear soft noises around the corner. She tenses up, then registers the soft bluish glow of the fridge light reflecting off of white-painted paneling and relaxes a bit. There's a quiet curse and the refrigerator closes with a little more force than necessary.  
Robin—Dick, she reminds herself, although why Bruce lets him use that nickname is anyone's guess—has his back to her on the other side of the granite-topped kitchen island. He's wearing a blue tee with gray plaid pajama pants and seems to be muttering darkly under his breath. Selina briefly debates the merits of sneaking up and scaring him versus the risk of taking a Batarang to the throat, but she doesn't get to make a decision because Robin stops muttering and says, "Hey, Selina!" in a perky tone.  
The corner of her mouth quirks up a centimeter. These Bats. He turns around and leans back casually with his elbows on the counter. "What are you doing up?" the seventeen-year-old asks with just the barest hint of suspicion (she can't really blame him, honestly).  
She lets her full smile break across her face, friendly and genuine. Or genuine-looking. She's never really understood the difference. "Midnight snack. Or four a.m., which is midnight for us. What's got you all worked up?"  
He pouts. "Bruce finished the milk and put the empty carton back again. I swear he literally does this every time."  
A few months ago she wouldn't have thought Batman capable of committing the slightest oversight, never mind actual absent-mindedness, but now that she knows him better she has to admit that sounds exactly like something he'd do. When she joined Batman Incorporated she never anticipated even being around them much, but then she stole the wrong thing from the League of Assassins and was really glad she had access to possibly the most secure-while-not-being-uncomfortable-or-gross-and-also-free-yay! place on earth. Now it's like she has this little window into the private lives of people she for years only knew as masks, and it's really weird if she's being honest. And this is from a woman who fights people and steals stuff while dressed like a cat every night.  
Robin is back in the fridge by the time she shakes herself out of her musings. "Want anything?" he asks. "We have water, orange juice, guava juice, Clamato because Alfred's a freak, or one of Bruce's gross protein shakes." He looks over his shoulder at her with exaggerated traumatized eyes. "Trust me, you don't want to try that last one."  
She laughs lightly. "Wait, what's Clamato?"  
"Exactly what it sounds like. Unfortunately."  
Well that's . . . incredibly disturbing. She says as much.  
"Yeah. I know the curiosity thing is just a saying but that stuff _will_ kill you. Or maybe keep you preserved for all eternity. No one's really sure how old Alfred is, so it would make sense, I guess."  
Selina sidles up to the kitchen island and tries to peer over his shoulder without looking interested. She pastes a bland, indifferent, and utterly bored look over her face. "Any leftovers?" she asks in the most "I couldn't care less and actually have much better things I could be doing despite being in someone else's house at four in the morning" voice she can muster.  
From the sound of his (quiet) cackle, he isn't fooled. Damnit. "Sorry, KF was over earlier, so there's literally no food anywhere in the house," he answers with a smile still tugging at his cheekbones.  
He's turned around, and even though the fridge is behind him its glow still picks out the edges of his face, throwing weird shadows across the left side. He's a cute kid. Still on the smaller size, but the girls probably go wild for him at school now that he's grown into his limbs. She can make out a cut across one cheek and a big, mottled bruise along his jaw that will probably be a livid purple in better light. Since her stay began she doesn't think she's ever seen him (or Bruce) uninjured, and yet they still have never been caught by the media vultures that lurk outside the huge oak doors of the gothic manor. The two of them must have better makeup skills than Harley Quinn. (Wait, no, that's a bad comparison. Most people are better with actual _makeup_ makeup than Harley. She can't even seem to find her foundation color. Maybe better than the new Batgirl? The military one.) She's almost sure Bruce contours, too; no one just _has_ cheekbones like that.  
The teen's smile turns devious in an instant. "Wait, actually, Bruce would get all huffy if I broke into the real emergency supplies, but I just so happen to know where he keeps his not-so-secret stash of junk food. You up to give me a lesson in stealing stuff?"  
An evil grin slides across her own features. "Is that even a question?"

^^ ^^ ^^

Three minutes later they're both sitting on the counter in front of the microwave with bated breath. Selina is mildly impressed: this kid is kind of cool, now that he's outgrown his brat stage. He has her same appreciation for the finer things in life, like watching through the microwave's glass window as the popcorn bag slowly revolves and swells like the world's most untalented, delicious ballerina. Finally the popping stops (a bit too much like gunshots for her taste; she thinks she might have caught a flinch from Robin as well, although he tried to cover it with a yawn), and the bag is displayed before their greedy eyes like a golden relic from Indiana Jones. The orangey light from above only adds to the dramatic effect. Reverently, Dick opens the microwave door, and the smell that rolls over them in a warm, buttery wave practically causes her to fall off the counter. This. This is paradise.  
Dick takes out the bag, dangling it by the very edge with two fingers before dropping it on the counter between them and sliding off himself. The smell is only getting stronger, and Selina is struggling very hard with looking aloof and uninterested. He winks at her and hops easily up onto another counter, then hooks one foot in the pantry door handle and toes the other precariously into the half-inch crevice created by the top of the oven so that he can stretch up to open a small, unassuming cabinet right below the ceiling of the kitchen. The cabinet door quietly swings open, and he gets both hands in before unhooking his left foot. From there he pushes himself up with just his arms and bends in so that just his legs are sticking out while his entire torso has disappeared into a cabinet that logically shouldn't accommodate his shoulders.

The aroma radiating off of the popcorn by her side is getting more mouthwatering by the minute, and Selina is reaching the limits of her self-control, but she's still a bit too proud to open it without him. She's also, admittedly, curious. After what seems like an eternity he pushes himself out and drops about six feet to the ground, landing silently in a crouch with a triumphant smirk on his face. She shoots him a haughty look and pointedly doesn't ask what he was doing in order to demonstrate how utterly disinterested she was the entire time. He triumphantly holds up a slightly dusty gallon-size yellow bottle, posing with it for the audience for a few seconds before trotting back over. Close up she can see–oh. Oh, my. It's that cheap fake butter you get in movie theaters. She didn't even know you can _get_ that outside of movie theaters. She decides right then and there that she will follow this kid into battle if need be.

Well, that's a touch melodramatic. She probably wouldn't follow anyone into battle, ever, actually, except maybe Bruce. She prefers to either lead others into battle or slink along the sidelines and pull random combatants into alleys to dismantle them discreetly. Guerrilla warfare is more her thing. But she would certainly give Robin a grudging nod of approval, which is pretty much the same thing.

The now excessively buttered popcorn is warm and salty and _incredible._ It's _way_ harder not to just inhale it after the addition. It was totally worth the surprisingly arduous mission to retrieve the popcorn, and she says as much.

"Eating this, I really understand the security measures he put in place in that hallway. Even the laser grid. 100% valid," Robin agrees.

"The tripwire attached to the box of live bats was a bit overkill, though." She's still trying to pull apart the knots in her hair.

Robin winces. "Yeah, I sometimes wonder why anyone thought it was a good idea to give _Bruce_ of all people access to almost unlimited funds from a multibillion dollar company."

"Useful for people in our line of work, though."

"It does come in handy. Especially with the frankly ridiculous amount of self-surgery that ends up happening around here. IVs are expensive."

"Plus, you know, the Batmobile."

"That, too."

"Where does he get the gas for that anyway? There's none in the Batcave that I can see, but I can't really see him filling up at the pumps outside Costco."

"I think it's a hybrid?" He scratches the bruise on his chin absently.

She casts him a withering look. "Those still need fuel."

"Riiiiight. Cars are Bruce's thing." He grins sheepishly, bringing one hand up to massage the back of his neck.

The corner of her mouth quirks up again. "Please. You knew what a hybrid was."

The hand comes back down immediately, the grin now shamefaced for a different reason. "What gave me away?"

"Common sense, pretty much. And if you're going to fake a tell, don't go with such an obvious one. It might get past the Great Detective, but my job necessitates mostly dealing with people who are, you know, still _alive."_

There's a calculating look in his eye that she didn't notice before, but it switches out after a tick for an admiring one like it was a fake photograph in one of those toy kiddie "cameras" you find in dentist office lobbies. "Speaking of which, that was pretty awesome the other day when you took out that guard. Even though he wouldn't admit it at gunpoint, Bats would never have been able to get that close."

"You were impressed?" She raises one thin eyebrow. She's been doing that a lot with this kid. Full of surprises.

"Well, yeah. It was kinda cool." He blushes slightly.

"Bats would have gotten all judgemental."

He snorts. "Bats doesn't have to deal with villains checking out his ass during fights. Except Joker, and he doesn't count. Honestly, I would appreciate a tip or two. You use the weapons you've got. Bruce taught me that, so he can't begrudge me this."

Well, he's right–he certainly has the assets for it. Not that she'd ever _say_ that. She's not a creep. But, hmm. She could give him a few tips, if she's really willing to spin the wheel of "Will Batman kill me for this" for maybe the thousandth time.

Eh, screw it. "It's all about reading people. You've got to be able to tell when to be confident and when to be helpless."

"How can you tell?"

Honestly, it's nice to be able to say this stuff out loud, pass it on to someone who's interested and appreciates her hard-earned bag of tricks. Maybe she should take a page from Bats' book, get her own apprentice. (Ha. That would end well.) "Well, it's all profiling. There's the people like Batsy with the whole Good Samaritan thing going on. Helpless. Right away; it's a no-brainer. Gets a bit more difficult from there, though. From there most people break down into the confident and the unconfident. The supremely egotistical and the doormats. And often, what they're looking for is the opposite of what you'd expect."

He's actually _nodding earnestly_ at this point. God, Batman's going to freak, but the kid will be an _ace_ at honeypot missions, she can already tell. She both hopes and fears she'll be around for Bruce's reaction the first time.

"So what you're saying is go with your gut?"

"Yep, pretty much. If you have good instincts, follow them. Remember that people only see what they want you to be."

"Any other wisdom to bestow, sensei?"

She pauses, considers. "Oh, and swing your hips a little more when you walk. Never hurts. Until you're older and the chiropractor appointments for your lower back pain are putting a dent in your savings, but you know what they say."

"YOLO? You only live once?"

"Nope." She takes a moment to figure out the letters. "NRLTLITPA. Nobody really lasts that long in this profession, anyway."

"I see why that acronym hasn't caught on quite as much. It's not very _catchy,_ is it?" They share a smirk of mutual understanding, one devoid of bitterness but full of experience. It's an old smile. Probably the oldest thing about either of them. Maybe the oldest thing there's ever _going_ to be about either of them. And that's . . . maybe _okay_ isn't the word, but it's a fact, and a fact will keep you warm by the hearth at night long after your flickering self-assurances have burned down to a pile of wax or been blown away on the wind.

He swaggers into the living room and flips on the lights—first time tonight—revealing that the blue shirt actually has the Superman logo on the front and the bruise is really more green than purple at the moment. He flops down on Bruce's dark, shiny leather couch with a completely unnecessary but also impressively high bounce with a sort of aplomb to it. An official, businesslike bounce like he's done the same flop on this same couch many times before. He turns on the enormous flat screen TV, the little red light in the corner blinking sleepily awake to glare at them. Selina settles less decorously but more gently on one couch arm.

Some news show comes on, a rerun most likely since it's almost five in the morning at this point. A blonde woman with a serious voice appears on a green screen with images of carnage playing behind her. _". . . allegations that the warlords used child soldiers in the attack on the capitol. Bialyan officials have denied the claims. The Geneva Convention—"_

 _Click._ Robin changes the channel. Glancing over at him, she sees that he's a little tense. Just a little.

She doesn't even get it at first. Then, _oof._ That's right. That _would_ be a bit of a touchy subject.

They spend thirty minutes making fun of some trashy sci-fi movie with octopi from space and a sexy femme fatale with more metal parts and less character depth than your average refrigerator. The whole time, Selina stews in her own curiosity. It's always been one of her defining qualities. Unfortunately.

Screw it. This has been going well, she's been honestly having fun hanging out with the weird teenage adopted son of her whatever-Bruce-is-to-her, but she _really_ wants to know. "Can I ask you a personal question?" She says it, like most things, insincerely. Like a joke.

He grins easily at her. "Sure. I mean, I've known you since I was, what, ten? You're like my weird aunt with 15 cats at this point. Go ahead."

"Why did Bruce make you Robin so young?"

She thought it was strange at the very start, too, of course, but she guesses that at some point she kind of . . . got used to it? She's not sure when. She definitely pointed it out to Batman at the start, and she thinks she made a few jokes that in retrospect a nine-year old probably shouldn't have heard. Whoops. No wonder he didn't like her during his brat phase.

Something occurs to her, and she narrows her eyes. Metas often have to start young because they're targets. "You don't have any superpowers . . . do you?" Not all metas have flashy powers. She knows a few who can lie low.

"Actually, yeah." She nearly chokes on popcorn, but that would be undignified. Instead she raises one eyebrow. The house is completely silent, holding its breath.

He leans in closer, pausing for a second for suspense, then deadpans, "I know every ABBA song by heart. Every. Single. One."

In the future the record may reflect that she cracked up at this point. It may even say she snorted. If this comes to pass, she will fervently deny it in a court of law without even taking her hand off the Bible. She will submit to a lie detector test, and the results will mean absolutely nothing.

"But seriously," she continues once she's done definitely not sniggering, "it doesn't make any sense."

He considers. "Okay, you can't tell Bruce this."

Who does he take her for? She puts her nose in the air. "Naturally."

He exhales. "Well, if you ask Bruce he'll tell you I was determined to do it anyway, so he had to train me so I would be less likely to, you know, die. That's what he wants to believe, and it's part of it." He seems to struggle more with his next words. "But the simple fact is that the earlier you start someone, the better they're going to be. It's like those kids whose parents start them playing violin at, like, two. And Bats wants someone to keep watching Gotham once he's gone. He loves this city. So I had to start early. And the only way you really learn is in the field, in the thick of things. I had to, so I learned quick." He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. "Anyway, it worked out, right? So it's chill, I guess. I'm feeling the aster."

The thing is, his smile should be empty. Because she knows a lot of fractured people—she's one of them—and after you say something like that your smile _should_ look empty. Vacant, or bitter, or like just a baring of teeth. But his doesn't. It's wide and happy and warm and friendly, toeing the line between charming and dopey. She realizes that if you asked him the difference between a genuine smile and a fake one he probably couldn't tell you, either.

Then he starts chattering about something inane and she's trying to figure out how to steal the rest of the popcorn without seeming any less aloof and superior.

Bruce comes upstairs that morning (because of course he was in the Batcave all night. Sleep is for the weak) to find his ward fast asleep on the floor and his whatever-Selina-is-to-him passed out on the couch, somehow stretched out so as to take up the whole thing even though it could comfortably fit maybe eight people or more. Her makeup is miraculously still impeccable. They both have random pieces of popcorn in their hair and the creases of their clothes while the rest of the kernels are scattered across his very expensive leather couch and authentic 16th-century Persian rug. The smell reveals, to his trained detective's nose, that said popcorn is exceedingly greasy. He's really grateful that someone thought it wise to entrust a nearly endless wellspring of wealth to him of all people. This is going to be _very_ costly to clean. Maybe he should invest in some plastic furniture, or pleather at least. And tarps. His ward, though it's gotten better as he's matured, is a walking hurricane of sound and color and _mess_ when he's not trying notto be _._ With Dick around, he could probably use a lot of tarps.

Bruce is tempted to wake Dick up. No matter how late he was out, he should not be asleep at this time of day. He should have gotten to bed earlier, the popcorn definitely messed up his diet, and he really should have woken up automatically when Bruce entered the room. Letting your guard down like that can be fatal.

He fumes for a moment, worry-rage flurrying quick and heavy behind his eyebrows and under his lungs for a minute before he takes a breath and tamps it down. Dick isn't him. Bruce can't be too lenient, but he'll give him this.

He turns to pad silently to the kitchen but is stopped by a soft "Hey" from behind him. Selina is still mostly not awake, sleep-drunk, but she grins lazily at him and beckons him closer. Against all his instincts, he goes to her.

She leans over the back of the couch toward him, a faint smirk on her face, motioning that she's going to whisper in his ear. He reluctantly complies. She leans in, and her breath is hot against his cheek.

"Go easy on the kid, ok? He's young. Only seventeen."

Huh. That's a surprising sentiment from her. Wait . . .

Her Cheshire grin widens. "Let him be the dancing queen, Bruce." She starts humming the tune as she slides back down onto the couch. He stalks away as quickly as he can without it being construed as running, but she just sings louder, pointedly. "Youuu can daaaaance! Youuu can jiii-iiive!" He doesn't need to see her to know that the malicious, smug smile never leaves her face.

Oh, god.

There's two of them now.


End file.
